A Neat Monster
by roominthecastle
Summary: Tom takes drastic steps to finish up his assignment. Red and Liz deal with the consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**disclaimer**: not mine

* * *

Her legs buckle. Leaden exhaustion pulls her down on the couch. She hears him but the words don't register. Nothing seems to register anymore. Her stained fingers curl into the soft cushion, gripping it tight, trying to hold on to something. Anything. She can't recall how they got here. She remembers pulsing red and blue. And shouting. Rain. Tom. And blood. Fragments. Painful splinters of memory that burrow deeper with each attempt to join them up into a whole. So she stops trying. For now. She doesn't touch them. She doesn't move. She just sits, empty and wordless, with skinned knuckles and muddy shoes.

"Lizzie."

Her name wrapped in his voice finally penetrates her fatigued haze. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because all your FBI friends can offer you right now is a nice blanket and a never-ending barrage of questions. Both of which are utterly useless at the moment."

"What can you offer?"

"A safe place," he answers, shrugging out of his jacket. "And some time to process what happened."

_What happened?_ she wants to ask but the words get stuck and sink back. She doesn't look at him. She can't. She stares at one of the expensive-looking knick-knacks on the elegant coffee table in front of the couch, briefly wondering whose home they are "borrowing" right now. There is an undeniable upside to Red's hermit crab-like practices but she couldn't live like this. The beauty that surrounds them feels alien.

As if he could read her mind, he sweeps the smallish table clean of every object, then sits down on it. Their knees touch but she doesn't move. There's a small first aid kit in his lap. He soaks a piece of gauze with antiseptic liquid, then gently pulls her hand into his. "This is not gonna be pleasant," he warns her, then starts dabbing at the raw patches of skin. Her fingers flex and unflex, but she endures the process silently. He doesn't speak either. She watches him as he cautiously and meticulously cleans her hands of dirt and blood.

"I hate you," she says after a long stretch of silence. Her voice is hollow, barely above a whisper. It's one final, desperate grab for some semblance of control but her grip slips. She doesn't sound convincing enough - not even to her own ears. Why can't she hate him? Why isn't she allowed at least that much satisfaction? Their eyes lock. He doesn't say anything. As usual, he seems unaffected but she sees a spark of emotion. A small twitch under his eye. He waits. "You…" she continues, "… you destroyed everything I had."

He lowers his eyes and grabs another piece of gauze from the kit. "The things you had," he says, his tone low and even, "were not worth preserving, Lizzie." He doesn't patronize her. He states a cold hard fact she hasn't quite come to terms with.

"That's what you decided," she says.

"No." He soaks the sterile fabric and turns her hand palm up. He studies her scar. Runs his thumb along its edge. "That's what you decided when you trained your gun at the man masquerading as your husband, and pulled the trigger." When he looks back up, he finds her staring back at him with mounting intensity. "I think it was the right decision."

"You're hardly an objective bystander."

He holds her gaze. There's a long pause. A slight twitch - this time in his shoulder. The armor of easy-going indifference is cracking. He bites the inside of his lower lip, not allowing any words to escape. It's a momentary success in a battle already lost.

"You're loving this, aren't you?" she asks, her voice full of tears and accusing.

His jaw clenches. "I am not."

"I don't believe you."

He inhales deeply. Silently. "I care about you."

"You're a liar."

"I love you."

The simple, unceremonious confession throws her. It's followed by ringing silence but she is quick to push back. She doesn't even want to begin to comprehend what sick, twisted meaning he might associate with those three words. "You're a liar."

"And I love you," he repeats. His demeanor still feels casual, detached even, but his eyes flash with emotion.

His mere presence stings and burns like antiseptic. "I hate you," she whispers.

"Lizzie—"

"I hate you," she repeats, much louder this time as if volume could lend credence to her declaration.

He regards her quietly, then tilts his head. "Who's the liar now?"

She keeps her eyes fixed on him. That's all she can do. Then something gives way. The numbness finally cracks and the chaos churning inside her rushes to find an outlet. Soon she feels the tears. They roll down her cheeks in silence. He doesn't try to wipe them away. He doesn't move to sit next to her. He doesn't try to touch her. Not this time. This time he is simply there. With her. For her. If she needs more, it's up to her to reach out.

Once again, she refuses to look at him.

"I've been where you are now," he says. "It's…" he trails off, tasting then discarding a few words before finding the right one, "… disorienting." He packs away the gauze and the antiseptic. She sneaks a glance at him. A memory flickers across his features. "Like being pushed out of an airplane at 14,000 feet," he says, closing the kit and she quickly shifts her gaze. "If hating me makes you feel any better, then by all means, hate me, Lizzie. Hate me with all you've got for as long as you need. I promise I'll still love you with everything I have."

He waits a few seconds, letting it sink in, then rises to his feet. He's already at the door when her voice stops him.

"Why were you pushed out of that airplane?" she asks.

He turns back around. "Well… that's a long story."

She absently rubs her scar, then looks up at him. "Tell me."

He finds her a small smile and she scoots over a bit, making room for him on the couch. He flops down next to her and they study each other for a long moment. "This also falls under my immunity package," he reminds her and she gives him a small nod. "All right. Well, it all began on the island of Nauru with a man named Jubal. Fascinating character. Mad as a hatter. He made his fortune selling cremation jewelry and his Coupe de Ville cocktail is a killer. In this particular case, quite literally…"

He talks and talks for minutes on end.

He didn't lie.

It really is a long story.

And she doesn't mind at all.

She secretly wishes it could go on forever.

Because she finds peace in his voice**.**


	2. Chapter 2

**disclaimer**: not mine.

* * *

"And that's how I came to be tumbling through the troposphere at 120 miles per hour," he says. "Jubal was plummeting, too, but luckily, he had a parachute and I managed to grab onto him just in time. He cushioned my fall," Red says with a small grin.

"Were you scared?" she asks, already half-asleep.

He gives her a faint smile. "I was terrified. My mouth was so dry, I couldn't speak. I couldn't stand up. My hands kept shaking for hours," he says with laughter in his voice. "Oh it was a blast."

She regards him. Raymond Reddington being terrified. From the outside, it's probably not much different from him being content or worried or angry. He's annoyingly good at hiding. He hides even when he stands right in front of someone. But, at the very least, she can see him hide now.

"Yes...?" he prompts, his voice pulling her out of her reverie.

She must have been staring at him for a while. "I'm just trying to picture what it looks like."

Amused, he tilts his head.

"You being scared," she says, answering his silent question.

His amusement fades. His gaze drops. He looks at her bruises and she feels a rush of confusion. She clearly has an effect on him but it's a puzzling one that feels beyond her control.

"You did scare me today," he says after a long pause, then glances back up at her. "For a moment, I thought I lost you," he admits.

"Is that why you were in such a hurry to stash me away?"

He hesitates, then gives in. "Yes."

"Can I leave?"

"You're not my prisoner."

And yet she feels chained to him. Feels pulled. "What, then?" she asks. "What am I to you?"

He looks at her, taking his time. "Everything, Lizzie," he says at last. His voice is thick and gravelly and soothing. "You are everything."

A tiny, involuntary smile tugs at her lips. "That's not a real answer, Red."

Sounds of knocking shatter the fuzzy stillness. Dembe appears at the door. Red gives him a small nod, then looks back at Liz.

The mood shifts again.

The soft playfulness is gone. A smile still shadows his lips but she feels him tensing up. It affects her, too.

"I need to take care of something but I'll be back soon," he says and gets to his feet. So does she - with surprising speed - and their bodies collide. She quickly steadies herself but he doesn't move and she gets stuck between him and the couch.

"I have to... I have to call Cooper and... I-I need to go home," she says. All of a sudden, her body is vibrating with a hazy sense of urgency - a gnawing need to take action. Any action.

He knows the feeling. He also knows how unwise it is to react blindly and impulsively. That's the only reason Tom Keen is still alive.

"Your home is a crime scene, Lizzie," he reminds her. His gaze is dark and tinged with a distant, dull ache. "It's not safe. Not yet."

_Not yet._ Those two words set off alarm bells in her brain. "Are you going to kill him?" she asks point blank.

There's a pause. He considers her question, then answers it with one of his own: "Do you want me to kill him?"

She remains silent, her tearful gaze fixed on him. She starts to unravel again. How did things get so messed up so fast? A year ago she was planning to start a family with Tom and now a tiny part of her wants to give consent to his murder. She pushes the thought away and inhales, clearing her head and pulling herself together. That tiny part is not in control yet. "What good would that do?"

He regards her silently. A sad, faint smile curves his lips. "Yes. Unfortunately, dead people make subpar conversationalists," he says. "And there are some questions our dear Tom must answer."

"You know where he is?" It sounds more like a statement.

"In hospital," he says. "They are keeping him overnight. Agent Cooper will have him transferred tomorrow morning."

Her eyes narrow. "So he didn't run."

"He's not finished. Whatever he had planned is still in play."

"If you go, I'm coming with you."

He shakes his head. "No."

"It wasn't a request."

"You're exhausted and emotional," he says.

Her eyes flash with anger. "Says the embodiment of impartiality," she counters.

He grinds his molars, fixing her with a stare. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Lizzie."

"I think it suits me just fine. But I still I can't let you kidnap and torture him."

"He tried to kill you."

"Yes, I know. I was there," she says. Apparently, he is rubbing off on her a little bit. "And I want him to pay. I want answers but we need to do this the right way. The smart way. You wanted to work with me, so work _with_ me."

"He doesn't deserve your protection."

"It's not him I'm trying to protect."

Her declaration catches him by surprise but he is careful not to show it. He doesn't say anything, either. The silence grows thick and heavy between them. It starts to fill up with hesitance and rapid heartbeats. Hope wells up in him but he remains still. Waiting. Eyes locked on her. What happens next must be her choice. Pushed by a strange, vague need, she moves closer. Her hand drifts to his, and her fingertips lightly brush against his wrist, then trail down along the back of his hand, sliding over the ridges of arteries and knuckles. It's a warm, exploratory touch. Light but intimate. Cautious but curious. His jaw muscles clench and unclech. His pupils dilate. His breathing becomes slightly shallower. She enjoys the way his skin feels against hers. She enjoys the effects elicited by this simple physical contact. She enjoys that she's thrown him slightly off-balance and that he's struggling to hide. Then his eyes narrow. "Are you trying to seduce me?" he asks, his tone mock serious. He's trying to gain back control. Trying.

She withdraws her hand with a small, knowing smile. "No need. You've already decided to stay."

He tilts his head. "And what makes you think that?"

"You haven't moved since you got up."

* * *

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**disclaimer**: not mine  
a/n: I apologize for not answering your comments to the previous chapter, guys. I had some technical issues but they are sorted now, so you'll be hearing from me soon.

* * *

She leans in.

Her attention shifts to his mouth.

Her intention is clear and his conflict is excruciating.

"You should try to get some rest," he says abruptly.

The sentence tears into both of them as it leaves his mouth. She raises her eyes but he doesn't meet her gaze. He can't.

Did she misread him too? His rejection is a slap in the face. It brings yet another burning wave of humiliation. She stands mute and frozen for a long moment, trying not to fall apart.

At last their eyes lock. Her pain is reflected in his.

"I thought you…" Her voice cracks and she trails off. _I thought you wanted this… Me. Us. _She can't bring herself to say any of it out loud. All of a sudden, it feels ridiculous - pathetic, even. "Never mind," she says quietly, then abruptly pushes past him.

The coffee table screeches against the floor as he moves to maintain his balance. He reaches out but doesn't touch her. "Lizzie, wait."

She doesn't.

Awkward and helpless, he lets his hand fall back to his side.

And he watches her walk away.

* * *

She is tossing and turning in bed, achy, tired and fully awake. According to the clock on the nightstand, it's almost 4 a.m. but her brain is still in overdrive, mercilessly replaying the past two years of her life - including that painful moment from a few hours ago. It's an elaborate and brutal exercise in self-flagellation. She rolls to her back with a tearful sigh and stares at the ceiling. Red was right. Again. It's like being pushed from a plane. Her world can't seem to stop spinning but there's no one to grab onto.

She chokes back a sob and forcefully swallows the pain. _Enough_. Her breathing slowly settles and after what feels like forever, her eyes finally drift shut.

But they don't stay like that for long.

She gets up, crosses to the door and pulls it open. The house is wrapped in soft, dark silence and she wanders back towards the living room.

There's dim light spilling from the kitchen.

She hesitates for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of her. She stalks closer and soon sees him hunched over the kitchen island, eating. He's still wearing the same clothes, only his tie is missing. A floorboard creeks dryly under her weight and it draws his attention. She stops and leans against the door frame. They stare at each other silently in the semi-darkness.

He licks his fork. "You're up early," he jokes, casual, always feeling at home.

"I can't sleep."

He keeps his eyes on her for a long moment, then grabs another fork and slides it across the counter top. "Welcome to the club."

She stays put, eying him with arms wrapped around herself. She's wearing boxer shorts and a man's shirt. She found plenty of them in the bedroom closet - all in neat piles and original packaging. "I'm sorry," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. He can tell she's uncomfortable. Nervous. "For the um… for before. It was…" she trails off, lost, then tries again: "It... _I_ was inappropriate and—"

He opens his mouth to say something but she doesn't - can't - let him interrupt her rationalization.

"It was textbook self-soothing behavior. Really. It… it won't happen again."

He swallows. His head bobs slightly as if he was about to nod but changed his mind halfway through.

Her gaze shifts, desperate to find something else to talk about. "What are you eating?"

After a short pause, he glances down at his plate. "Cheesecake."

"At 4 in the morning?"

"I had a craving," he admits simply, and despite everything, she smiles faintly. He returns it, then gently pats the stool next to his. "Sit."

After some hesitation, she moves. She goes around the island, takes the fork, then sits down. He pushes his plate closer. "Try it," he prompts her, taking another forkful into his mouth.

But she just sits quietly, staring at the elegant silver utensil cradled in her fingers. Soon there's a small clink and the soft rustle of a shirt sleeve as he puts his fork down. She can feel his gaze but she doesn't look up. Doesn't look at him. If she did, the tears might come again, so she keeps staring at her hands. The contusions. The wedding band.

Soon the silence gets pulled apart by his voice.

"Bringing you here was a… somewhat rash decision on my part," he confesses. "One that I'm sure will be sufficiently misconstrued by your coworkers." She slowly peers up at him and his lips twitch with a sad smile. "And I thought it imprudent to further complicate an already… complicated situation."

After a long pause, there's a spark of amusement in her eyes - tiny and thoroughly unexpected. "Well, I think this is hands down the fanciest 'it's not you' speech I've ever heard."

His lips curve. He shakes his head and the smile grows into laughter. It's deep, rich, soft and infectious, not the sharp, hollow kind with which he usually camouflages himself. She tilts her head, studying him, and he quiets down. Her gaze rests on him for a while - it's a pleasant, anchoring weight. He slowly turns in his seat. His hand slides closer to hers on the counter top but stops just before their fingers could touch. "You wanted us to go the smart way, Lizzie," he says. "Under the current circumstances, this is it."

Liz stares at the space between their hands. It should remain there, she knows. "Most of them already think I'm sleeping with you," she remarks, sounding as tired as she looks. Occam's Razor is a frequently wielded weapon at the Post Office. She learned soon enough that it's mostly useless against Red but the others appear more reluctant to accept that.

Not that it matters right now.

Right now all that seems to matter is the distance between fingertips. It can't be more than an inch and it's crammed with conflicted anticipation.

"You can't help what people think," he says and their eyes meet. He looks somewhat mournful - almost apologetic - and the subtle shift in his demeanor gives her a pause. A thought that's been quietly bothering her for some time simmers to the surface of her conscious mind.

"What happened on that Christmas Eve?" she asks after some hesitation.

He fixes her with a strange look. "You read my file," he replies. It's a non-answer. An evasion. Or an invitation, perhaps, to think further in a less _linear_ fashion, as he'd say. With him, it's often difficult to tell.

"I did," she says, holding his gaze. She read everything available to her on the murky subject of Raymond Reddington. She read and re-read them a thousand times. She even unearthed some old pictures. One was taken at his Naval Academy graduation in 1984. She conveniently forgot to return it with the rest of the documents.

He watches her intently. She still craves a distraction. Earlier he refrained from serving as such but now he decides to indulge her. "And...?" he prompts, further arousing her curiosity.

"And the more I get to know you, the less sense it makes," she says.

"Why?"

"You'd never have abandoned them."

In the ringing stillness, gratitude and relief flood him at once.

It catches him off guard.

_She_ catches him off guard. Again.

He stares at her in complete silence, grappling with a sudden, intense mixture of emotion, and his frame trembles slightly in the effort to hide it. She can see the bobbing of his Adam's apple, the twitch of his mouth, and the tipping of his head. But she can't possibly grasp how much he longed for her to see him the way she's beginning to - outside the rigid confines of tailored reports, clumsy debriefs, and her rather one-track training. _Your father would be so proud,_ he wants to say. He wants to say so many things but he can't bring himself to utter a word.

In the dim light, under the cold, blood-rusted shell of a monster, she catches sight of the man in that old picture she kept. The man who is now disoriented by pain and grief and not-knowing. Who has lost everything. Who is still searching, still trying to claw his way back to some semblance of personhood. Who is not entirely unlike herself.

She repeats her question, quieter and more cautious this time: "What happened?"

His eyes lower for a brief moment. He rolls his jaw around, chewing a mouthful of unsaid words, then: "I wish I knew," he admits. It's the truth. An open wound. He's a half-blind king ruling over a vast empire of information, and the cruel little irony isn't lost on either of them. "I've been trying to piece it together but... I just can't see the whole picture yet."

"Is that why you left, why you just… disappeared?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you came back?"

"It was one of the reasons."

"You think Tom knows something about it?"

This conversation is rapidly turning into an interrogation.

Her hunger for information makes his mouth twitch with a faint smile, and his gaze flickers to the fork in her right hand. It doesn't go unnoticed. While he isn't particularly worried about being stabbed again, the memory of their first heated clash is a vivid one still. With a fluid, elegant move, she turns the fork in her palm, so its sharp tines are no longer pointed at him. But she's still waiting for an answer.

"I doubt his knowledge extends much beyond the task at hand."

"Me."

He gives her a small nod. "But I'm sure the person or persons he works for are much more well-informed, and with the right incentive, Tom can lead us to them." She seems to consider this. "So good thing his head was left mostly intact," Red adds with a small quirk of his lips, trying to lighten the mood a little bit.

"Not for the lack of trying," she remarks and tries to smile. Tires. Then fails. Suddenly, everything that happened in the past few days comes crashing down on her again like a ton of bricks - the rubble of a perfect life. Perfectly fake. Ashen. Burnt to the ground. But the smoke still lingers. She can't seem to escape it. She can't even take that damn wedding ring off. Its mocking her in its clingy goldness.

_What do you __need__?_, she hears him ask.

He sounds distant.

Maybe she imagined the question.

Either way, it takes some time to formulate an answer. "I… I need to not feel like this anymore... like I'm suffocating," she says, her fingers curling into a strained fist, then flattening back against the counter's cool marble surface. "I need a 'here and now,' just… here and now, not 2 years ago or 20 steps ahead."

She's angry, tired, and rambling but he understands. He understands her perfectly and his hand moves, closing the gap and sliding over the back of her fingers - still mindful of her injuries.

She keeps her eyes on their hands, hears him stand, feels him step closer.

She's pulled up from her chair into a hug but it takes some time to relax into his embrace. The fork she's been clutching falls to the floor with a loud, metallic clank, and her arms slide up around his neck, pulling herself tighter against his body - so tight she can feel his heart hammering, feel his ribcage rising and falling against hers.

"Just breathe, Lizzie," he says, his voice soft and muffled by her mussed hair.

And she lets out a mute sigh.

Soon their inhales and exhales sync up, creating a soothing rhythm.

They still have a few hours left to sleep. Both of them are exhausted but neither seems intent on letting go of the other.

They rest in each other's embrace.

* * *

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**disclaimer**: not mine

* * *

He is roused by warmth instead of the usual cold: a strip of sunlight has crept across his face. His eyes slowly drag themselves open. Liz is curled up next to him on the couch, fast asleep and still except for the rhythmic motions of her breathing.

They dozed off in a sitting position, leaning into each other. He feels his back protesting but he doesn't move just yet. Her fingers are still curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on, and her right hand is clasped in his. He can't feel her touch anymore because his arm has fallen asleep but their physical entwinedness fills him with a strange, exquisite mix of aching happiness. He watches her for a while, enjoying this rare, unexpected moment of serenity.

So profoundly mundane.

So terribly finite.

With great reluctance, he checks his watch. It's almost 7 a.m.

He shifts, pulling his numb arm free. "Lizzie."

She stirs. Her eyes open and slowly, she looks up at him.

"Good morning," he greets her quietly with a soft smile.

Her drowsy confusion slowly gives way to lucidity and mild awkwardness. Her hand slides off his chest and she pulls away.

But not too far away.

She rests her head against the back of the couch, mirroring him. Watching him. Taking him in. All of a sudden, a lot seems to be going on behind those blue eyes - a heavy mental catalog of everything that has happened, is happening and could happen.

"We need to get going soon," he says.

She nods.

He tilts his head.

But they don't get up.

Her eyes don't leave him. She seems to be waiting for something, something to be said or done, and suddenly he finds he has no idea what that might be. Then he sees it: the faint beginnings of a smile. She caught him again. She's learning to read him and she caught that flicker of uncertainty.

"Breakfast?" he inquires with raised eyebrows and fake nonchalance. He tries but he isn't fooling her. Not here. Not now. The faint upward curl of her lip remains.

"I can't even think about eating," she says.

His gaze shifts. His lips purse, then stretch into a fond smile. "Some of my best memories are food related," he says.

"That's because I've never cooked for you," she remarks.

Surprised, he looks back at her. "It can't be that bad."

"It's worse. Last Thanksgiving I almost killed T…" Her smile falters and dies on her lips along with the rest of the sentence.

They sink into silence. She stares at her hands and he watches her, wishing he could make this easier. But he can't. He shouldn't, either. It will serve her better in the long run. She needs to build up a tolerance.

Liz lets out a small laugh - mirthless and helpless -, shaking her head. "I keep forgetting…" she tries to explain, then peers up.

There's something hard and heavy in his gaze - and no pity. "I know," he says.

The past is like a lost limb. For fleeting moments, it can fool your mind into believing it's still there. It aches, it itches, it lures, it touches, it still _is, _still yours_,_ but when you reach for it, your fingers clutch cold air.

And you remember.

It's a cruel trick - a clever trap the suffering mind walks into over and over again, sometimes even deliberately. But traps are for dying.

So one day, if you're lucky, you reach out and find something tangible again. Something warm, alive, and real.

A present.

Maybe even a future.

A chance to belong again. And you can begin to forget.

"You can do this, Lizzie." She regards him wordlessly, searching his face. Her eyes continue to question him. "You're like me," he answers with a sort grin, half-teasing, half-reassuring. She doesn't protest this time, which pleases him. "You survive."

"Is that what you do?" she asks. "Survive?" He remains silent. "Right." She sighs, resigned, then rises to her feet. "It's never the whole picture with you, is it?"

He remains seated. "Do you want us to arrive separately?" he asks, changing the topic.

"I have nothing to hide."

He grins, his gaze sliding over her appreciatively. "Clearly," he remarks with a small nod.

The sunlight coming from behind her is making the borrowed shirt she's wearing almost completely transparent. She wraps her arms around herself, pulling the fabric tight, but she doesn't move. She lets him admire her for a few more seconds, waiting until their eyes meet.

He gets to his feet and draws closer. "I meant what I said last night," he says.

"Which part?" she asks.

"Every word," he answers quietly.

"Every word?" she repeats with a hushed tone of playful disbelief, wondering how it is possible to be so intimate with someone without really knowing him. Without actually touching.

"Yes," he confirms. "Three in particular."

Her eyes narrow. She's reluctant. Suspicious. Cautious. "You really shouldn't throw those around," she says. "It's _imprudent_," she adds, plucking a word from his extensive vocabulary and flinging it back in his face.

"Do you think me imprudent, Lizzie?"

"No," she answers. "You are, however, obsessive, manipulative and, according to the state of Maryland, still married."

He is silent for a long moment, then his gaze flickers to her ring. "So are you," he says, looking back at her, unfazed.

"Your wife's in WITSEC. Has been for 24 years."

He laughs and shakes his head - as if she just told him a great joke. "Yes. It's so… convenient, isn't it? Being relocated to some godforsaken town, well beyond the reach of every friend, relative, and… nosy FBI agent."

"But not yours, right?" she says. His harsh amusement dissolves but he doesn't answer. "Do you know where she is?"

Once again, his answer is silence, then a strange expression crosses his face. She's seen it before but can't quite place it. "Perhaps I'll take you to her one day," he says.

_tbc_


End file.
